


Lost

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 20:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12733734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: Sherlock has depression and can't talk to anyone about it.





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This could contain trigger warnings.  
> There is (implied) self-harm, suicidal thoughts, self-hatred and a lot of description of depression.
> 
> Oh also, just to be clear, this isn't me saying that this is how Sherlock is in the show.

  Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, staring into the microscope unseeingly. John sat opposite him, freshly showered and reading the newspaper contentedly.

  He seemed happy.

  Sherlock envied him.

  He felt nothing.

 

  It wasn’t like a numbness associated with depression. He hadn’t even felt off. It was just like the emotions he’d had, had been washed out of him and there was nothing left.

  At first it didn’t bother him at all. It was what he’d always aspired for before meeting John; the ability to stop feeling emotions at all. To really become the machine everyone thought he was.

  He hadn’t really registered the emotions after John had come into his life. Besides the first day’s adrenaline and rush of excitement at the prospect of living with this extraordinary man that had lasted for the next week, it was a very slow process, but then, sitting at the kitchen table thinking about how he couldn’t feel _anything,_ he finally realised that he’d been so much _happier_ that way.

  Everything had been okay. He’d been happy and John had seemed it too. They’d both come from dark places neither of them ever spoke of and fit together like lost puzzle pieces from the jigsaw they’d been cast away from. Sherlock had known about John’s depression, so he had done everything he could to make it better, and in the process, he made himself better, too.

  It was perfect.

  But that perfection was now gone.

  He couldn’t feel _anything_ and it _hurt_ without even _hurting_ and that somehow made it even more painful. But then that was pain he couldn’t feel, either.

  And it was wrong.

  But no matter how much rationalising he tried to do, it didn’t stop.

 

  As rare as the theme was, it turned out Sherlock was wrong.

  He was at a crime scene trying to collect the clues that he could in order understand the killer and their motives. John and Lestrade were behind him, half watching him, half chatting about the case, Sherlock supposed, but talking quietly enough that his zoned-out mind couldn’t hear.

  Lestrade then stepped forward. ‘What do you have?’ he asked.

  Sherlock looked at him, his thoughts finally focusing back on reality. He blinked his eyes into focus hazily and then said, ‘It was an attack after taking the victim’s ring. Probably a family heirloom. Probably expensive. The marking on his right hand pinky show the signs of a recently-removed ring, one that was jewelled, probably with a precious gemstone. The murderer tried to remove the ring while he was sleeping, but woke him in the process. So, the murderer attempted to remove the ring, the victim woke. In shock, the murderer hit him with the nearest lamp and killed him. Then they cleaned the blood off the lamp, got out a gun and shot him in the head to make the impression that he’d killed himself. Rather artless, in conclusion, don’t you think, Lestrade?’

  ‘I… well, sounds pretty complicated to me,’ he said, looking dumbfounded.

  A strange wave of irritation coursed through him.

  ‘That’s because you’re an idiot who wastes my time with mundane cases such as these,’ he said loudly, losing his temper suddenly.

  Lestrade looked confused and slightly put-off.

  Sherlock didn’t care.

  John frowned angrily.

  ‘Sherlock-’ he warned, but Sherlock looked at him and glared before cutting him off.

  ‘Shut **up**!’

  Then he turned swiftly and stormed out of the house, hailing a cab and getting in it just as John came out onto the street.

 

  When John finally got home, Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed and locked, and he couldn’t hear a sound coming from within it.

  The anger had already died down during the long-enough cab ride home and by the time he’d reached Baker Street he was slightly concerned and very confused.

  He tried knocking on the door but, as expected, there was no reply.

  Giving in, John went upstairs to sleep, not noticing when the door he’d left opened slightly as he turned away, and Sherlock watched him blankly as he made his way to his own room for the night.

 

  The next day, John woke up and went downstairs only to find the flat empty.

  After he’d made a cup of coffee and some toast, he had wandered slightly into Sherlock’s empty room and tried looking around for clues as to what had gone wrong the day before, but he found nothing.

  _It’s not like Sherlock would keep a diary,_ John thought, mildly amused. Then he walked out and into the living room, opening his computer to update the next story on his blog.

  _The Ring-Barer_ , he titled the page, then began recounting the story and the deduction methods he could remember, specifically leaving out the strange outburst on Sherlock’s behalf.

 

  Lestrade hadn’t called since he’d yelled at him.

  Sherlock didn’t blame him.

  Instead of going out to cases, he left the flat earlier than John woke up and came back later than he went to bed, going out into the darkest places of the city and hiding within the shadows and staring blankly at the streets; at the people, living their normal, boring daily lives. Smiling and talking happily; _being_ happy. Sherlock missed that. He missed smiling at John when he looked at him in amazement and awe, or smiling at him softly when he looked away, too focused on his own thoughts or his current task to realise that Sherlock had been watching him for minutes, and sometimes hours.

  He missed the happiness he could feel around John; because of John.

  He missed feeling alive.

 

  Four days after the spontaneous outburst; four days without seeing John at all, Sherlock got home late and walked up the stairs quietly so he didn’t wake his flatmate.

  But when he walked through the front door, John was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper, looking very tired and bored.

  John looked up, and on seeing his friend, he stood up, walking towards where he still stood, still as a statue, as though if he were still enough he might not even be seen.

  But then John sighed wearily and said, ‘what’s happening?’

  Sherlock looked away. ‘Nothing,’ he said, his voice monotone. ‘Why?’

  John sighed, his voice slightly frustrated. ‘You yelled at Greg the other day, and then walked off and locked yourself in your room. I haven’t seen you in four bloody days,’ he said.

  Sherlock sighed slightly dramatically, ‘I was working,’ he said.

  ‘You haven’t got a case!’ he said almost hysterically.

  Sherlock looked at him, irritation rising in his chest. _Leave me alone, John_ , he thought angrily.

  Then without a word, he turned away and walked into his room, shutting the door behind him and closing himself off from the world once more.

 

  Sherlock woke early again the next morning. His heart was racing slightly in the aftermath of a dream. Moriarty had been there, telling him how unwanted he was; how unloved.

  It hurt because he knew it was true.

  He sat up slowly, glancing around the dark room numbly.

  _This time it’s different_ , he thought vaguely.

  He stood up slowly then walked out of him room, not bothering to dress in anything other than some pants and a t-shirt.

  He wandered into the kitchen, feeling dazed and absent, as though he were floating through the air and his mind was filled with fog.

  When he got to the counter he pulled out a bread knife and a loaf bread from the breadbin.

  His minder wandered, his thoughts slow and vague. He seemed to be thinking about the vacuum of outer space, wondering what would happen if he went there now, with nothing but his clothes and this loaf of bread.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he knew the answer, but he couldn’t quite recall what it was. It was too tiring to think things through properly, anyway. He could just stay like this, picturing himself in outer space, floating above the earth, watching as people continued on in their lives without him, still smiling and talking happily; still happy.

  It didn’t matter if he was here or there. No one would care about him.

  Nothing would change.

  Suddenly, a stinging sensation flared in his left index finger and his right hand jumped back in reflexive surprise, letting go of the object within its clutch, resulting in a muffled _clang_ as the object made contact with the counter.

  Sherlock looked down in surprise and stared at his finger and the knife, his mind slowly adjusting to reality and processing the situation.

  Then it all sunk in and he stared at the blood pooling out of his finger. It was a lot of blood. It was even dripping onto the bench.

  He stared at it for a moment longer, his mind as alert as it had been for the majority of time during the past few months, registering the pain fully… and yet he didn’t care.

  It felt right to watch the blood as it slowly dripped out of him. The pool underneath it had become so big that it started to spread out into the bread, staining it a dark red.

  He grabbed the knife and turned around to walk to the bathroom, dropping his hand by his side and leaving a trail of blood on the floor like it meant nothing.

  He walked over to the sink and stared into the mirror.

  His face was hollow and pale and his eyes looked devoid of life. He looked like some sort of walking dead, wandering around the flat like an afterthought of life, and he might have even believed it if he hadn’t looked down and observed the blood still running down his finger.

  He stared at it for a moment, blinking twice before raising his right arm again and bringing the red, bloody knife to his arm, blade digging into his skin.

  Moriarty flashed in front of his eyes.

  _Do it_ , he whispered, his face right in front of his mind’s eye, his eyes dead and his cheeks hollow and pale, and a malicious, twisted smile on his face.

  _Sherlock_ , he said, his voice taunting. _We’re waiting._

  Sherlock closed his eyes.

  _Yes_ , he whispered again. _Do it. Rid the world of your soul. Nobody wants it. Nobody wants you. You’re all alone._

Sherlock let out a silent sob. ‘John,’ he whispered silently, his body shaking with the effort not to cry. ‘John, I need you.’

  _He doesn’t want to help you,_ Moriarty replied, his voice cutting knives into Sherlock’s skin; his back, his head, his heart. His arm. _He doesn’t care about you_ , he said.

  _Nobody does._

_You’re worthless._

_You’re **nothing**._

Sherlock opened his eyes a few minutes later. Or a few hours later. Or a few days later. He couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter anyway. It made no difference.

  He stood up from where he’d fallen onto the ground, curled in on himself in pain.

  Walking over to the sink, he turned on the tap quietly and put his hand and arm under the running water, watching as the blood (lots and lots of it) ran off his arm and down the drain until the red was gone and all that was left was clear liquid running over deep cuts in his arm and finger.

  When he’d dried his arm, he picked up the knife and walked into the kitchen.

  He only just had the sense to clean off all the blood from the knife, bench, chopping board and floor, and to cut the stained bread off the loaf in order to dispose of the evidence, before he drifted back into his bedroom and closed the door, not submerging for the rest of the day; closing himself off from the world once more.

  When he reached his bed only one thought went through his mind.

  _I want to die._

 

  Sherlock came out the next morning. If John had found any blood he’d missed while attempting to clean up, he didn’t mention it.

  He sat in his chair by the fireplace reading a book peacefully. When Sherlock edged nearer, though, he noticed the clear signs of worry scattered all around the living room.

  He walked over to his chair quietly and sat down in it facing towards John, who had looked up at him on arrival, pointedly not making eye contact with his friend.

  John sighed to get his attention.

  ‘Sherlock-’

  ‘No.’

  John sighed again, this time irritation leaking into his exhale.

  ‘Sherlock,’ he said more firmly.

  ‘No.’

  John gave him a look, Sherlock continued to stare at the floor.

  ‘Sherlock,’ he tried again, his voice raised minimally, ever-so-slightly unsteady.

  ‘No, John.’

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted.

  Sherlock froze in shock, then looked up slowly into his friend’s blue eyes.

  He blinked a few times before saying, ‘what?’ his voice completely monotone.

  John sighed suddenly, looking tired again. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his eyes weary and exhausted.

  Sherlock looked back down at the ground, ‘nothing. I’m fine. Everything is normal and it’s all-’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop… this,’ he said.

  ‘Very specific, John.’

  ‘Sherlock,’ he warned.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ John said. ‘When have you _ever_ gone this long avoiding me, before? Christ, Sherlock, this isn’t normal.’

  _When have I ever been normal?_

  ‘Even for you,’ he added.

  Sherlock’s chest burned. _Exactly._

  ‘What’s wrong?’ John asked again, his voice filled with worry and slight desperation.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Sherlock.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Sherlock.’

  ‘Shut up!’ he yelled, standing up suddenly. ‘There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand!?’ he screamed.

  John looked taken-aback, scared almost.

  ‘I’m trying to help-’

  ‘Why?’

  John looked devastated.

  ‘Because I’m your friend.’

  ‘I don’t have _friends_ ,’ Sherlock snarled.

  John looked broken as Sherlock left the room to escape to his bedroom.

  Sherlock didn’t care.

 

  Sherlock used the adjoining door from his room to the bathroom to get to the sink to wash away the blood evidence dripping down his arm.

  The cool water ran over the fresh cuts, the blood running down into the sink to be hidden away from prying eyes.

  _No one wants you_ , Moriarty’s voice echoed through the bathroom.

  _No one needs you._

  Sherlock let out a sob, covering his mouth with his hand as his body shook and tears filled his red eyes.

  He looked up into the mirror to watch his reflection.

  _Pathetic_.

  _Stupid._

_Useless._

_Unwanted._

_Alone-_

  The door opened suddenly, John’s concerned voice finding its way into the bathroom.

  ‘Sherlock?’

  Sherlock’s stomach dropped in despair and his eyes flicked to his arm, still bleeding out into the sink under the tap.

  ‘Oh my god,’ John exclaimed.

  Sherlock wanted to throw himself out of the second-storey window to his right.

  A body appeared at his side, reaching out towards his arm.

  ‘Sherlock,’ he said, slightly slurred.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, snatching his arm out from under the running water and pivoting past him, making his way to the glass door into his room.

  John reached out for his shoulder, turning him around before he could move any further and stared into his face, his eyes filling with worried tears.

  John reached out for his arm and took hold of it. Sherlock didn’t flinch.

  ‘Why?’ John choked out.

  _Because I deserve it_.

  John looked up at him.

 ‘ _What_?’ he said, looking horrified.

  Sherlock froze. He’d said that out loud. _No, no, no._

  John’s face crumpled slightly. ‘How could you deserve this?’

  ‘Because I’m alone,’ Sherlock said simply, his voice as even as possible in attempt to hide the ache in his chest.

  ‘You’re not alone,’ John said despairingly, taking a step closer as if to prove it.

  ‘I am,’ Sherlock said, his voice cracking slightly.

  ‘Sherlock.’

  ‘-I’m useless,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not _useless_. You save lives.’

  ‘I solve crimes,’ he said.

  John looked lost.

  ‘I figure out how they’re murdered. I don’t stop it from happening.’

  ‘You help the police catch bad people. You’re saving people in advance,’ John said.

  ‘People usually only kill once,’ Sherlock replied.

  ‘You’re bringing justice,’ John tried.

  ‘It doesn’t _matter_ , John,’ Sherlock cried.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because nobody loves me!’ he shouted.

 

  John stared at him for a moment, his mouth hanging open in shock.

  ‘But I’m your friend. I’m always here for you,’ John said desperately, recovering from shock.

  _I’m still alone_.

  ‘I get that, John, but I want-’

  ‘Molly loves you,’ John interjected.

  Sherlock stopped for a moment. ‘I- _what_?’

  ‘It’s very obvious,’ he said, his eyes shining slightly in the light.

  _You don’t get it_.

  ‘No, John. Molly’s a friend-’

  ‘Irene Adler,’ John said suddenly, and his eyes widened and filled with realisation as though everything had clicked into place and just begun to make sense. ‘You have The Woman,’ he said, as though attempting to be encouraging.

  Sherlock shook his head. This was so wrong.

  ‘Look, it’s been years, but I’m sure she’d still be interested,’ he said, his voice shaking just _slightly_.

  Sherlock almost groaned in frustration. _This is so wrong_.

_I don’t care. I don’t care. I need-_

  ‘Sherlock?’ John asked quietly.

  John waited a moment.

  He frowned, ‘Sherlock?’

  Sherlock snapped back to reality, blinking a few times before focusing on John again.

  ‘You need to text The Woman.’

  ‘ **Why**?’ Sherlock said loudly, annoyed.

  ‘Because you need someone. You need her, Sherlock, or you’re going to end up worse. One day I’ll walk in here and I’ll find…’

  ‘Me dead,’ Sherlock finished for him, his voice flat.

  John choked back a sob. ‘I can’t…’

  Sherlock looked at the ground, his chest aching and his arm prickling as the blood dried on his skin.

  ‘I want to be,’ he said softly.

  ‘What?’ John choked.

  ‘I want to die. I have for years. Almost my entire life, in fact.’ Sherlock looked up to look into his friend’s eyes. ‘I want to die.’

  ‘I don’t want you to,’ John croaked, his eyes starting to fill with tears.

  ‘But you won’t care anymore. You’ll get over it. You’ll get over me,’ he said softly. ‘But I’m not getting over this.’

  ‘I can help you,’ John said, taking another step forwards.

  ‘No one can help me. I’m better off to die.’

  ‘No, you’re _not_.’

  _I need to. I need to. I need you._

  The room fell silent.

  ‘I need you.’

  Sherlock’s heart stopped.

  ‘I need you,’ he repeated.

  ‘I need you, Sherlock. I’ve always needed you.’

  Sherlock laughed and sobbed at the same time.

  ‘I’m unloved,’ he said.

  ‘ _I_ love you.’

  Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Not in the same way,’ he whispered.

  ‘As what?’ John whispered back

  _I love you. I love you. I love you._

  Sherlock looked down at his feet and took a deep breath.

  Looking back up at John, his eyes filled with tears as he barely whispered.

  ‘I’m in love with you.’

  John stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging slightly open in shock.

  Sherlock stared at him, his own eyes widening in horror.

  _What have I done? What have I done? What have I-_

And then John was kissing him.

 

 

 

  Sherlock woke up in his bed. The room was dark and he couldn’t hear much besides the breathing of a sleeping figure beside him.

  Sherlock reached for his own arm, feeling the cuts, memories flashing in front of his eyes.

 

  Sherlock stood still in shock as John pulled away from him. John raised his hand to wipe the tears running down Sherlock’s face.

  Then he pulled him in, holding him tight against his body, and Sherlock let his head fall on top of John’s as John’s rested against his shoulder. John breathed heavily against his chest.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, his voice muffled.

  Sherlock’s shoulders shook as he started to cry.

  John held him closer.

  ‘I love you.’

 

  John cleaned Sherlock’s cuts, his professional doctor’s face taking over to stop him from crying.

  Sherlock watched guiltily.

  ‘I should have never let you seen them,’ he said quietly, his head bowed in shame.

  ‘I would have seen them anyway. I know what self-harm looks like, Sherlock,’ John said, looking up slowly, his voice serious and gentle at the same time. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I deserved it,’ Sherlock replied softly.

  John finished wrapping the bandage around his arm and then looked up at him, his face now caring and sad. ‘You don’t deserve this.’

  _I do_ , Sherlock thought. But he didn’t bother speaking. He knew there was no point.

  But _of course_ , John read it on his face, and so he leaned down to where Sherlock still sat in his chair in the living room and hugged him gently, pulling back slowly until they were eye to eye.

  ‘I love you, Sherlock. Don’t hurt yourself again. I love you too much to see this.’

  Sherlock didn’t know how to reply so he sat quietly, holding back his tears. _I can’t promise you that I won’t_.

  Then John whispered, ‘can I kiss you?’ and Sherlock nodded slowly.

  They’re lips touched gently and Sherlock’s heart beat frantically in response.

  _John. John. John._

Then they stood up and Sherlock pulled back.

  John took his hand and Sherlock lead them to his room.

  Sherlock let go of him and walked around the bed to lay on the far side. John followed suit and lay down next to him, moving up closer so they could hug.

  Sherlock closed his eyes and bathed in the proximity.

  Within a few minutes Sherlock’s breathing evened out and he was sent into the first peaceful sleep he’d had in a long time. His last thought whispered softly to the room and the man lying next to him.

  ‘Thank you.’

 

  John looked over to the peacefully sleeping figure, stretched out across the mattress, clinging onto him even in his sleep.

  His chest ached at the thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t walked in. If he hadn’t talked to him; made him tell him what was happening.

  He loved him so much. It killed him to watch him commit suicide once. He couldn’t go through that again. Especially not like this; driven to it by depression and insanity rather than shame.

  John had always known Sherlock wasn’t a fake. He’d never stopped believing.

  He’d never stop believing in him now, either. They’d be okay.

  He knew enough about this kind of depression to know it wasn’t going to be good. Sherlock would always be depressed. Until the end of his time. But at least John could try to stop that time from being ended by the hands of the detective, himself.

  He couldn’t make things okay, but he could make them better, and that’s all the hope he needed. It was all John would ever need.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered.

  And Sherlock smiled lightly in his sleep, and John could have sworn he whispered it back.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh by the way, I'm not hating on Sherlolly or Adlock. Sorry if anyone was offended.


End file.
